


The Assassin's Keeper

by LLitchi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mobster, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LLitchi/pseuds/LLitchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is an assassin. Stiles is his agent, his handler, his savior, his contact to the rest of the world, his downfall, or just <i>his</i>. Stiles is a pet owner, a pet’s owner, a pet’s. Owned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Assassin's Keeper

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by tropes, who's overcome technical problems the likes of skynet in order to do this for me.

 

Stiles doesn’t know why Derek stays. Stiles would ask, but it occurs to him that if he doesn’t know, no one does.

“Derek,” he calls. Derek can tell that it’s him from his erratic footsteps reverberating disconsolately around the garage, but Stiles likes to announce his presence. They both deal in presence; Derek: in the lack of it.

Derek slides out from under the Camaro. He’s forever tinkering with the car. Scott speculates that he’s researching the best way to install a bomb and Stiles doesn’t tell Scott that the kind of assassination Derek specializes in doesn’t require that kind of flash.

“Hey,” Stiles shoves his hands deep inside the pockets of his coat and smiles winningly at Derek, “We have another job for you.”

“Don’t say that,” Derek throws the wrench onto the floor. He has this look on him that Stiles doesn’t see often—not a glower, not fake-it-till-you-make-it cockiness, not _just_ resignation—there’s something helpless in the way his jaws clench.

“Say what,” Stiles leans back against a metal contraption that he’s reasonably sure can take his weight.

“ _We_ ,” Derek says succinctly.

Stiles doesn’t have time for this, so he pretends he understands. “Okay,” he says, “ _there’s_ another job for you. His name is Anthony McGarrett, he owes Kali 200K, and this is a favor to her.”

Derek looks away. “Why can’t you just give me a folder, Stiles?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Stiles sighs.

“What about?”

Stiles eyes him, as though this should be obvious and it’s a silent accusation, it’s Stiles playing at Derek’s guilt because he doesn’t have any guilt of his own.

“Just talk,” he says. “I just wanna talk to you.”

***

“He’s a liability,” Jackson says for the fifth time.

Stiles rolls his eyes, “Excuse me, Mister Coke Habit, Mister Butthurt because when he says roll over Derek growls instead of baring his belly.”

Scott shakes his head, “Stiles, he needs to start taking orders from other people. You can’t be his agent.”

“Alright,” Stiles says, frowning at the fat snowflakes that has plastered itself to his forehead. “It’s been a great system for three years. I can’t see why we need to fuck with it.”

“Did anyone miss the fucking fact that Derek Hale is a fucking liability,” Jackson shoves at Stiles’ chest.

“Dude, chill the fuck out,” Scott steps in between them. Scott’s ruining his plan, which is to get Jackson so riled up they forget what they’re talking about in the first place and discuss anger management instead.

Two seconds into this fantastic standoff, Stiles starts blowing at snowflakes to try to melt them before they land on his nose.

Scott side-eyes him. He blinks his eyes innocently back, _Who, me?_

“I’ll talk to Derek,” Scott begins.

“No.”

“Stiles--”

“He doesn’t trust anyone except for me,” Stiles says tightly, staring at the streetlight past Scott’s shoulder—Don’t Walk, Don’t Walk, Don’t Walk. “Why is that so hard to understand?”

“There’s nothing to understand,” Jackson spits, “he either deals with it or he’s out.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“Deucalion’s running out of patience with him,” Jackson sneers. “And after that little stunt he pulled with Kate Argent—“

Stiles suddenly has Jackson by the perfect collar of his perfect coat, bunched up against his perfect, very breakable jaw. It’s just begging for a good right hook, really. “You piece of bottom-feeder white trash, you are never going there, do you hear me?” Stiles growls and, hand to God, he doesn’t know where this is coming from. He doesn’t want to look too closely. “You’ve been trying to insinuate it all evening, but you’re never going there, got it? Have some human fucking decency, asshole.”

Jackson looks at him coldly, “Let go, or I make you let go.”

Stiles grits his teeth. Stiles is not going to tell Derek he has to change because Stiles knows Derek’s going to do almost anything that he asks. Why can’t people leave Derek alone? Why can’t Derek just be the way he is?

***

“These new wannabes,” Stiles scoffs derisively, “it’s like no one wants to pay ten thousand dollars in cash for an assassination anymore.”

Derek shrugs, unconcerned about his new rivals.

Stiles doesn’t ask what he wants to ask, which is, _Why are you still here? With me? Why do you still trust me when I ask you to kill every day? What do we owe each other?_

“Do you--” Derek begins to ask, stops. Like he always does.

Stiles puts his hand tentatively on Derek’s bicep, tensed underneath the leather. He strokes Derek’s arm up and down for lack of anything to do and between them, it’s always been code for _I don’t know what to do, but I’m trying_.

“I’ll kill him, don’t worry,” Derek says, looking up at Stiles from cleaning his sniper rifle, eyes painfully eager to please. They’re at the bank vault where they keep the guns Deucalion buys them. Everything’s cold to the touch, raises the hairs on the back of their necks when they do, and warms deceptively when handled for too long. It really just leeches the heat out of them.

Stiles shakes his head, “I don’t worry.”

“Newbies do a sloppy job,” Derek says hesitantly. “People are too afraid of them talking to the cops. Their families can always be taken hostage, but—“

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I meant, Derek, what I meant was, don’t you want to get out of this?”

***

They met at the orphanage.

_What do they owe each other, if not something from a past life?_

Stiles was scrawny and brought with him ten years of a happy childhood, a warm blanket for the winter and a plush abominable snowman. Derek was already growing muscles and brought with him burn scars and something of a criminal record. The bullies picked on Stiles and left Derek alone, which Stiles always said was a sign of their underdeveloped cerebellum.

_What do they owe each other, except everything in the world?_

If the bullies had gone for Derek, Derek would have let them steal his lunch and shove his face into the cold mud. But they had gone for Stiles, and Stiles kicked them back even as tears streamed down his face and bruises bloomed across his ribs. Derek had told them to stop it, and Derek didn’t know how to fight to save his life but the next time when the bullies had gone for Derek Stiles’d already called for their supervisor, Melissa McCall.

_What do they owe each other? At least, surely, a goodbye?_

Stiles left the orphanage as soon as he turned sixteen. Derek was eighteen then, standing at the entrance, duffle bag slung around his shoulder, waiting for Stiles in the middle of the night because he knew. He knew because Stiles had been cordial to everyone he met that day, even though on his birthday he usually sulked around the premises, missing his parents and so miserable that the buildings were permeated with grief.

_Do they owe each other, then, only a sense of responsibility?_

“What the hell do you think you’re doing,” Stiles said softly. “I don’t need you to follow me.”

Derek looked at him, dead in the eyes, always too earnest and Stiles thought, _My god, I’m going to destroy him_. “I don’t know what else to do.”

***

“Deucalion wants to talk to him,” Ethan says, unapologetic.

Stiles slams on the brake. “Oof,” Ethan articulates, muffled from the leather cushion. “I take it you are not amenable.”

“I am way not amenable,” Stiles confirms. “I am so far removed from amenable that you cannot find me on the amenable map. Also, I want to talk to Scott.”

“Scott’s too soft on you two, and Deucalion’s too soft on Scott.”

“Hence,” Stiles narrows his eyes, “I want to talk to Scott.”

“Stiles,” Ethan levers himself to an upright position, “you are needed on East end. You can’t be babysitting him forever. And everyone knows, anyway.”

Stiles squeezes the steering wheel, his hands clammy and his stomach a little sick. “Know what?”

“What you two are planning,” Ethan shrugs too casually. “Deucalion’s plan has always been to separate you, use Derek’s muscles and your ass until you forget what you were before your jobs. Turns out your brain was a bit more valuable than your hole and I can’t tell you how much of a fucking complication that fucking was.”

Stiles goes cold. Colder. He’s used to the insinuations by now, but Deucalion’s plan is a bit of a reveal.

“What,” Ethan laughs, “did you think we let you in without knowing who you were and let you rise without knowing how to push you down?”

***

“I’m going, Derek,” Stiles says, at the garage again. “Deucalion’s sending me across the city.”

Derek pauses. “The supermarkets do have fresh produce over there.”

“Derek,” Stiles says, strangled, “you won’t go--”

“I know.”

“I’ll visit,” Stiles promises.

Derek smiles, and it’s that defeated look that Stiles hates stealing over his face again. “Of course you will.”

“Not like that,” Stiles amends, “Not just for…planning, and stuff. I’ll visit because I always want to see you.” Because you can’t live without me.

Derek laughs hollowly—he thinks it’s a lie, _It’s not_ , Stiles wants to say, _I’m not using you just like they are_.

“Is Scott going to be my contact?”

“Yeah.”

“He doesn’t like me.”

Stiles winces, “But he likes me, so he’s going to make an effort.”

Derek goes back to the Camaro—clang, click, clack—Stiles thinks he’s trying to understand her.

Stiles watches the shifts of his muscles, catalogues the ease with which he walks. A lifetime ago, there was something building between them. A lifetime ago, they were living together in a one-room apartment, bumping into each other by necessity, weaving around each other in a choreographed dance, hands lingering on each other’s waist and inhaling slowly each other’s mingled breaths. But Derek had cupped Stiles’ cheek and Stiles had said no because it was easy to mistake need for love when a single person was all you had.

“I—“ Stiles says.

“You don’t have to visit,” comes Derek’s voice from under the car.

“You don’t have to do this at all,” Stiles returns recklessly, and regrets it the moment it leaves his mouth.

There’s the sound of bare fists hitting metal from the Camaro, the sound of bones ringing in an unnatural frequency, and the sound of fifteen years of a person’s life crashing down. Stiles hurries over to Derek, and when he reaches the car, his arms are waving inanely, uselessly about his sides.

“No,” he says, his voice breaking on the word, “Derek, you know I lied. You have to do this, you have to do this because I need you to. I—“

***

“You are not a foot soldier,” Stiles tells Erica, “When you are talking to anyone outside of the organization, your words bear the entire weight of us.”

Erica nods, and he pretends he can’t see the beginning of a long infatuation in her eyes. He grabs the bottle of ketchup—glass, so he unscrews the cap and hits the bottom of it half-heartedly.

“People don’t expect us to be normal. Talk differently, walk differently, like you’ve got secrets to hide and they can’t imagine half of it. After a while it becomes second nature.”

Erica nods again, her face taking a transformation even as he speaks, Jesus.

The bar is submerged in darkness. It’s why he chose it for this meeting, even though it’s not Deucalion’s, not Kali’s, not anyone’s in particular. The bar is just this city’s, because the bar doesn’t even belong to its owners but its owners and their family, their children and then their grandchildren, might as well belong to the bar.

“Stiles,” Scott slides in next to him. “Erica.”

“ _Scott_ ,” Stiles exclaims brightly, just to defy expectations.

Scott smiles. Stiles likes him—when he and Derek have killed Deucalion, they will leave the gang to Scott.

“I’ve got to go,” Erica says, reading correctly the constipated looks on Scott’s face.

“So,” Scott puts his head on the greasy table as Erica stalks out of the bar, “Derek.”

“How’s he doing?” Stiles asks lightly.

Stiles is doing very hot, himself. He’s cut off from the main branch bar Scott and cut off from Derek who’s been his golden ticket to any locked door since sixteen. His new landlady is also displeased with the random drive-by shooting and the panic attacks.

“Surprisingly?” Scott has stolen Stiles’ coke and is now mouthing the raised letter. If Scott weren’t Scott and if it weren’t totally gross, it would be sexy, “Surprisingly well.”

Stiles ignores the pit of his stomach doing a sinky-twisty-swirly thing.

“That’s good,” he says, little smile pulling, as if involuntarily, at his lips.

“He’s freaking the fuck out, but otherwise he’s doing well.”

“Considering that McGarrett’s dead.”

“And Barthelme.”

“That was him?” Stiles whistles. He doesn’t want to talk about this, but he has to. He stays. He gets tidbits of information about Derek from Scott even though all their lives it’s been the other way around—Stiles a bridge connecting Derek to Scott, to the organization, to the rest of the world.

He must not have done as good a job as he thought, because they lapse into silence, which, for Scott and Stiles, is a fucking unnatural state.

“Do you think they’re gonna legalize marijuana?” Stiles prompts, and that launches the shop talk as easily as anything.

***

The next time they meet, it’s at the shooting range.

No one will believe it was Stiles who showed Derek how to hold the nine mil. He did, though, because before Deucalion’s men swarmed his apartment and killed his parents his dad was a cop. In Stiles’ backpack, he used to have pepper spray and a kickass Swiss Army knife that he lost to the bullies long ago in the orphanage. In return, he made his dad take him to the range and let him watch.

Stiles leans on his side against the steel pane, watching Derek empty the clip. Without looking, he knows that every bullet will be true, that it will travel across the expanse of space and puncture the human analogue in the heart. That part isn't worth watching. The part worth watching is the recoil, how the bullet hits its _shooter_ , the nervous tick in Derek’s eye that’s just short of a full body flinch.

“Hey,” Stiles says. Today he wears flannel because flannel is disarming and because he doesn’t have to talk about a job.

“Stiles,” Derek lowers the gun onto the ledge.

Stiles peers at Derek from beneath his eyelashes, looking for—he doesn’t know what he’s looking for, he doesn’t know what he expects or wants to see. He wants Derek to be happy without him, to miss him, to not be able to function without him. He wants Derek to be angry that he left. He wants Derek to stop following him around like a lost puppy.

“Stiles,” Derek says again, betraying nothing.

No, that’s not it. It’s only been a week and a half and Stiles still knows him like the back of his hand. Stiles finds himself a little bit ridiculous: Derek misses him, Derek is still killing for him even if the order comes from the mouth of someone else, and Derek hasn’t ever been lost or angry, not since Derek was twelve.

“I missed you,” Stiles says honestly, and God, Derek’s eyes, like he doesn’t know what to do with that.

“I,” Derek says, “Me too,” and lets himself be pulled into a tight hug.

Stiles has one hand curled around the nape of Derek’s neck, the other fisting in the fabric of Derek’s wife beater, his chest pressed against Derek’s pecs and rapidly beating heart. He feels solid and whole for the first time in a long time, so even if he doesn’t know what this will do to Derek, he’ll selfishly take what he must.

Derek breaks away, first.

“You need to get back to main branch,” Derek picks up the revolver again, “You need to get closer to Deucalion.”

“He knows,” Stiles says, shaking his head, shaking himself out of it.

“That was always a possibility.”

Stiles hears his teeth grind, “He led us on long enough to make us hope.”

“You know him, though,” Derek says, “You know what he wants.”

“To use us until we’re dead.”

“You’ve been letting him.” It’s not an accusation.

Still. “I’ve been biding my time,” Stiles decides, “We don’t have nearly enough cards, but now we’ve got to play them.”

Derek smiles. Despite his best efforts, Stiles is still conditioned to look for things that make Derek smile: Christmas with just the two of them, Stiles putting on his seatbelt, cleaning Derek’s laptop of malware, Stiles smiling and meaning it.

Stiles thinks about his use of “we.” Stiles can only be in a “we” with Derek, not even with Scott, not with Erica, not with the organization. He feels warm at Derek’s subtle possessiveness. Nothing is going to change.

***

Ethan is left in charge of Stiles’ old job. Ethan is a moron.

Lydia, unprompted by Stiles, refuses to work with him. She runs a downtown dominatrix club to fund her double Ph.D., which means she pays a protection fee and doesn’t want anyone poking at her client list. Ethan thinks he could have negotiated a better arrangement.

Stiles sends Lydia his love, which she tragically doesn’t return, but by the three-week mark Ethan’s still not back to kissing Deucalion’s ass with his tail between his legs so Stiles pulls another string. He calls up Danny, who feels guilty about having broken Stiles’ hypothetical heart by having once upon a time rejected him, and Danny agrees to help him anonymously feed the cop enough information to arrest the Duke of Manhattan for racketeering. Danny may or may not know this.

Deucalion will need him to deal with the cops who have always had a soft spot for the wayward son of a local hero, will need Stiles, who’d never had his face on a wanted poster or his biometrics in the register.

***

They say criminals return to their scene of crime, and Stiles really can’t resist the baser instincts of a criminal so he drops by HQ to say hello to Scott.

It’s Deucalion who greets him.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Deucalion croaks delightedly, “we have missed you.”

“Er,” Stiles says noncommittally.

A hush ripples across the room. Two guys Stiles doesn’t know walk out, Flo’s tirade about Dover’s worth as a human being dies into a whimper, and Scott’s jaws clench.

“Would you like to talk with me upstairs,” Deucalion asks, mild mannered.

Stiles didn’t bring the Smith & Wesson. He doesn’t want to go, but it isn't a request. He shrugs and follows Deucalion out.

Scott says, “Stiles,” and it’s not with slyness—Stiles’ not going back to main branch—but with worry, and Stiles is simultaneously scared and touched. _How many people know this? To what extent do they know?_ Ahead of him, Deucalion’s idly tapping his cane, his head tipped up like his unseeing eyes are automatically drawn to the light source, and around them, people are still busily shuffling papers and rolling their pencils around, pretending not to be morbidly curious.

“Deucalion,” Scott continues, while Stiles is still at a loss.

Scott’s inexplicably and clearly Deucalion’s favorite, and Stiles is Scott’s. Incidentally, Scott’s life would have been better without both of them in it.

“It’s fine,” Stiles tells him, “See you later,” meaning, _That’s a promise I’m making Deucalion keep_.

Deucalion smiles, “Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles grins widely. This is okay. This is his game, his arena; this is not like grasping desperately for a baseball bat and caving in someone’s skull, even though he’s done that too. This is gauging Deucalion’s hubris. This is making Deucalion think he can keep Stiles and Derek close, leash them to his cause and still come off unscathed, making Deucalion believe that he’s smarter than Stiles. That cornered animals are too desperate to be dangerous.

They’re inside Deucalion’s office. It’s organized but cramped like an antique store, so dark and claustrophobic that people say they can choke on air. Stiles picks up a folder at random, off of the outermost shelf, and leafs through it noisily. He knows his weight and how to throw it around.

“Er,” Stiles winces, exaggerated, “Ennis doesn’t seem to be doing too well, does he?”

Deucalion’s face spasms. God, Stiles loves it when they do that.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Deucalion says, soft and deadly, “I fear I have not given you and Mr. Hale due respect.”

“No biggie,” Stiles grabs another folder, “I can’t say for Derek but that’s actually been really helpful. In, you know,” Stiles drops his voice low, suggestive and sweet, “making ourselves indispensible to you.”

Play it cocky, he thinks, play it cocky and the corners of Deucalion’s lips will draw down in disdain, Deucalion will underestimate them and whatever he has planned for them will not come to pass.

“So I have realized,” Deucalion hums. Stiles quietly panics. This is Deucalion playing his card and fuck it, maybe Stiles does want to know what Deucalion’s got planned for them and maybe it’s exile to Slovakia. Stiles will work with what he’s got.

But Deucalion says, “Your father’s alive, Stiles. While you have been working for me to avenge him, he’s been working for me to protect you,” and Stiles doesn’t process what Deucalion says, immediately. He stares at the air in front of him for a long while. Deucalion is curling his lips smugly, but Stiles can’t see that. Stiles sees his dad in uniform—because his dad is _always_ in uniform—and pinching the bridge of his nose—because Stiles’ _always_ more exasperating than any parenting book would have him believe. Stiles flashes to when his dad is teaching him how to make his bed, to when his dad makes it for him anyway, to when his dad pours the coffee for his mom, a gesture so ordinary and familiar it’s painful and—

“My mom,” Stiles rasps.

“I’m sorry,”

“I don’t believe you,” Stiles remembers himself and jerks back even though there’s no room and they are already as far apart as the office would allow. He hits a metal shelf. It rattles loudly from behind him. “About my dad being alive—“

“It’s the truth,” Deucalion says. “The truth that now I respect you far too much to hide.”

“I told you,” Stiles near screams, “I don’t believe—“

Without even looking, Deucalion reaches back for a file on a racket and slides him a photograph. It occurs to him that this, that everything, was staged.

It’s a crane shot of a middle-aged man by some dock. If Stiles looks closely, he can see the bone structure of his father on the man’s face, the tired creases on his forehead that weren’t there a decade and a half ago but were always a possibility. But Stiles doesn’t look. He doesn’t need to. The posture of the man couldn’t belong to anyone else, the squint in his eyes as he frowns at the shitty surveillance camera that couldn’t belong to anyone else either.

“It could have been doctored,” Stiles says, because it could have.

“Have someone check it, if you want,” Deucalion says, “I don’t care. Mr. Stilinski, you will go back to work at the main branch, do you hear me? And you will do your work to the best of your abilities. Needless to say, you put one toe out of line and you kill your father.”

Deucalion taps his cane, already striding out.

Stiles can’t find his voice.

“You have already trapped him all of your life, Mr. Stilinski,” Deucalion continues reasonably, “Do you want to kill him too?”

“How do I know he’s still alive?”

“You don’t.”

“I want a photo with him holding a newspaper or something.” Even if that doesn’t tell Stiles where his dad is, it’ll alert his dad somehow. Seventeen years as a cop plus half a brain mean his dad’s got to think something’s fishy with being asked to hold the latest New York Times while smiling into the camera.

“I have a better idea,” Deucalion says, “In, I don’t know, five years maybe, I’ll give you another picture of him and maybe he’ll look five years older in that one.”

***

Stiles finds Derek at their apartment.

“Stiles,” Derek says, and quickly herds him inside, warm hand on his back and slipping his keys from his fingers. Stiles realizes he is shaking.

“I need,” Stiles stutters, “I--”

“Whatever you need,” Derek says immediately, but it’s the wrong thing to say and Stiles can’t pretend that there’s nothing wrong with _whatever Stiles needs_ anymore.

“You don’t mean that,” Stiles begs, turning around and hand blindly groping for Derek’s face, “please, you don’t mean that.”

“I didn’t,” Derek agrees, and no, _no_ , Stiles remembers, _whatever you need_.

“You have to tell me what _you_ want, Derek,” Stiles draws Derek’s face close, both of their heads bent down, their noses bumping together softly, “This thing, when it happens, you have to decide for yourself, Derek, for what it is that’s going to make you happy.”

Derek shakes his head, “Stiles, tell me from the beginning. What happened?” and what _is_ the beginning, where does Stiles start, what the fuck? He’s thought ahead, sure, but he’s thinking around what he’s never going put into words because the saying of it is going to set into motion possibilities he’s not ready to face.

“Checkmate,” he decides. He leans into Derek’s warmth shamelessly.

***

When they started, Stiles promised Derek the deal wasn’t forever, that someday the killing would end.

After their first job with Deucalion, Derek came home and broke down as soon as the door closed behind him. Stiles pretended he couldn’t see, because that was what Derek needed. Stiles pulled Derek onto his lap and petted Derek’s hair while ranting about Project Runway and they didn’t do that every day, but did it often enough that it didn’t matter. Derek dug his nose between Stiles’ thighs and whispered into the denim of Stiles’ jeans, made Stiles promise him everything all over again.

***

Stiles calms down enough to call Danny.

“I need you to look at a photo for me,” Stiles says, “Off the books.”

Danny sighs, “I am very flattered that you think my being a software designer has somehow magically gifted me with Photoshop know-how.”

“But you know someone with Photoshop know-how.”

“I thought you wanted to keep this among as few people and contacts as possible.”

“Danny,” Stiles bites his lips, he doesn’t like this either, “you’re kind of it for my computer contacts.”

There’s a pause.

“What do you want to know?”

“If the photo is doctored,” Stiles exhales in relief, “where it might have been taken, anything. And Danny?”

“What?”

“Don’t tell Ethan.”

Danny tells Stiles that he’s an asshole and hangs up. Stiles faxes him the photo because that’s not a no and anyone acquainted with Stiles knows better than not to refuse him concisely, directly, and repeatedly.

Derek emerges from the bedroom barefoot and wrapped in a fleece blanket.

“Danny’s definitely going to turn up something,” Stiles looks at Derek’s feet, “I wasn’t thinking earlier. There’s no way we’re even considering what Deucalion said.”

“You’re lying,” Derek says, half surprised, half accusatory, and Stiles’ head snaps up, his eyes locking onto Derek’s own and he’s caught between the instinct to flinch and the inexorable gravity of Derek’s eyes and it’s nauseous like falling.

The worst thing is, the worst thing is Derek pads over and holds him close, bobbing above the surface of the waters, his only lifeline.

Stiles’ knees buckle, and he sags down onto Derek’s shoulder, a little confused, a lot breathless. “Aren’t you mad at me?”

Derek just squeezes him tighter, and Derek’s like a wall, only living and breathing and enveloping and warm. “Don’t you need me,” Derek says.

“I,” Stiles says, and stops. He would give anything right now to be able to pull away. “I’m not. Derek, it’s my _dad_.”

“You _hope_ whatever Danny’s doing is going to work out. It _has to_ , because both of us are stuck with Deucalion if it doesn’t,” Derek says, resigned, blithe. “I _know_ it, _you_ know it, you were already outlining your plan for it when you came here.”

“What am I supposed to do, Derek?” Stiles says, frustrated, and he thinks he _is_ pulling away, only he’s really hugging Derek back, terrified to let him go, “What am I supposed to tell you?”

Derek slaps Stiles then, a clean, savage snapping noise and a terrible burning sensation on Stiles’ cheek.

He grabs the front of Stiles’ shirt, yanks Stiles close so that he slumps raggedly forward, “Take responsibility.”

It isn't a one-way street, with pets.

***

Scott drops by on Monday night to help Stiles move back.

“Good to have you back on base.” He punches Stiles’ arm.

“Don’t jinx it,” Stiles cants his head so that only his right cheek faces Scott and Stiles must be delusional if he thinks that’s going to work but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to try.

It doesn’t work.

“What happened to your face,” Scott slinks in past the door and catches Stiles’ elbow, jerking him around, “It’s not Deucalion. I saw you leave that time. Was it Jackson?”

“Scott,” Stiles steps back, annoyed, “It’s not Jackson, but it’s also—“

“Was it Ethan? He got pushed out—“

“—none of your business,” Stiles scowls.

Scott lets go, “Stiles--”

Stiles met Scott via Melissa. When she couldn’t find anyone to watch Scott for her on a late shift she brought him along, and Stiles moseyed over and steamrolled Scott into being his friend because that worked with Derek. Stiles never told Scott about his family because one other person knew and for him, that was enough. If they had had more time, if Scott hadn’t just popped in every Wednesday evening and Stiles hadn’t left, Stiles might’ve told him.

But that’s not fair, because Scott sneaked in on Stiles’ birthday and gave him a Ninja Turtle, only Stiles for completely dumb reasons had lied to him about what day it was. From the summer of his first meeting with Scott, Stiles has had two birthdays each year, every year.

“It wasn’t Ethan,” Stiles says, finally.

“Stiles, if someone hurts you, it’s my business,”

Stiles shakes his head and Scott, Scott looks earnest and like the one who was actually hurt because Stiles is still an asshole, he is, “It’s not, this time. Any other time, Scotty, but this is between me and that person only.”

“It was Derek,” Scott deduces.

Stiles winces, because he’s usually not that transparent, he _thinks_ , but maybe when it comes to Derek, “And it was deserved.”

“Probably,” Scott pronounces, and Stiles is surprised because Scott and Derek don’t like each other, grudgingly-sharing-the-Stiles is practically the definition of their relationship.

Scott orders pizza and beer, even though there’s not much to pack because Stiles has a total of two cardboard boxes that he brought from his and Derek’s old place. Stuff that Stiles doesn’t want Scott to touch has been slid under his car seat already, Stiles’ real papers are locked in a bank vault under Emrys Merlin and Scott’s so domestic Stiles tasks him with clearing out the fridge anyway. There’s nothing discriminating in the fridge. Potentially radioactive, but not discriminating.

“Hey,” Scott says, unwrapping a casserole and making a disgusted noise, “I never got why you wanted me to hook you up with Deucalion’s gang until, you know, Deucalion told me.”

“What does that mean?” Stiles doesn’t look up from scribbling his name onto the inside of the door of the walk-in closet.

“You don’t like what we do. You don’t care, most of the time, but you don’t like it either.”

“So _you_ like blackmail and extortion?”

“See,” Scott puts the casserole down with a clang, “you look down on it. You look down on _us_ , and you and most of the others never got along, Stiles, because you always thought you were better than all of us. I, I don’t labor under any illusion about what we do, Stiles, but I’m close enough to the source to think that the ends justify the means and that I’m making a difference and have it be right. I’m doing good work, Stiles, I am.”

“In two years, Scott, I’ve gone from--”

“You’re a natural,” Scott admits, “but that doesn’t mean you belong.”

When Scott leaves, he says something about just wanting Stiles to be happy, but Stiles can’t hear it over the blood rushing in his ears.

***

Stiles drives back to his and Derek’s old place with two cardboard boxes in the back of the truck, a briefcase under the driver seat, and uncertain of his welcome. He’s already texted Derek _will be home by 8_ , but no _be there_ or even _don’t wait for me_. Just an announcement, and passive aggression at its finest.

Derek has been for waiting twenty minutes when Stiles arrives, and Derek says _sorry, I’m so sorry_ so many times the words lose their meanings. _Sorry for hurting you, sorry for being so selfish, it’s your **dad** , Stiles. How are you holding up, Stiles_.

What Stiles hears is, _Sorry for putting me first, for once, my reflex of care and feeding for you above all else has kind of messed me up_.

***

On Thursday Danny’s friend comes up empty with the photo.

“Get a second opinion.”

“What’s the magic—“

“Please,” Stiles says, “Look, do I need to get Derek in here and have him strip for your viewing pleasure?”

Danny glances at the door to Derek’s bedroom by reflex, “Dammit Stiles, you are such an asshole.”

“Do I have to--”

“Stiles,” Danny sits back, “she’s the best in the business. If she says there’s nothing in that photo, then there’s nothing in that photo. The shipping containers are unmarked, the camera the photo’s shot with is an international brand, the coat the guy’s wearing’s unidentifiable. Federal and states database don’t have him in facial recognition. There’s _nothing_ , Stiles.”

“Does she know if it’s doctored?”

“I thought you knew. It isn't. It’s legit.”

“When was it taken?”

“She doesn’t know. I told you, there’s nothing.”

“That’s impossible,” Stiles stands up, ushering Danny out. “I don’t care how much it costs, get me a second opinion.”

“What’s going on--” Danny begins, but Stiles suddenly wants him out, wants him gone, wants some kind of progress at least and everyone’s sitting here wasting _time_. Deucalion’s been ahead of him in the game by fifteen years and Stiles can’t afford to be—

“Stiles,” Danny says, tentatively touching him on the shoulder, “Stiles, what’s going on? Who’s the person in that picture?”

Stiles laughs, hollowly and incredulously.

Danny is even more worried, “You okay? I know I’ve been saying you’re an asshole but you’re really not that bad, you know. You made a house call to my ex after he dumped me and I won’t forget that. Stiles?”

“Danny,” Stiles shakes his head, “just please--”

“’Course I will,” Danny steps back, “I’ll talk to someone else, but you need to know that you’re going to have to talk to someone other than Derek about it.”

“What,” Stiles throws his hands up helplessly, unsure of how Danny got there.

“You never tell us anything,” Danny says slowly, “We just assume that you only talk to Derek. Whatever this is, we can help you better if we know what’s going on. Derek can’t…he doesn’t have the resources that we do.”

“Let me think about it,” Stiles says, meaning _yeah right_. “And Danny?”

Danny’s shrugging on his jacket and glancing furtively around the apartment. It’s messy and petite and strangely Victorian and to Danny, Stiles realizes, it must seem claustrophobic.

“Hmm?”

“You still can’t tell Ethan.”

***

One of the problems with discovering your dad’s still alive when you thought he’s been dead for fifteen years is that it’s not exactly conducive to a good night’s sleep. Stiles lay restless in his bed with his eyes resolutely closed and his heart thundering in his chest that first night, wanting to fall asleep, afraid of nightmares, even more afraid of his brain churning out gruesome possibility after gruesome possibility. His hours had already gotten worse when he moved out of his old place, his new one horribly empty and horribly sparse.

There’s a very small chance that it might be because of Derek. Derek catches him while he’s testing out this hypothesis.

“Stiles?” Derek croaks.

Stiles scrambles up to a sitting position, having narrowly avoided meeting the floor face first when Derek opened the door to his bedroom with Stiles leaning on the other side.

“This is a dream,” Stiles says, trying to cough away his sleep-rough voice, which reminds him, he’s dozed off for ten minutes, yay. “You are dreaming, go back to sleep.”

“Why are you here, Stiles?” Derek kicks half-heartedly at Stiles’ cocoon of blankets.

Stiles shrugs, he’s never been shy about how he feels, not with Derek, “I can’t seem to fall asleep. I think you help. Being with you helps,” he clarifies.

He doesn’t understand why he tried to hide it just now. Maybe he doesn’t have the right to need Derek anymore, or maybe it’s a more damning admission because it’s more real.

He looks up to see Derek’s face doing something complicated, and doesn’t even attempt to parse that.

Derek drops down next to him, and in the breath between when he’s leaning in and when they kiss, Derek says, like a prayer, like a sigh.

“I understand. You are never letting me go.”

Derek kisses Stiles, and right then, makes all the decisions for him.

***

They don’t say goodbye.

Derek’s going to miss the Camaro. Stiles is going to miss Scott. Stiles is going to feel guilty about Lydia and Danny and Erica and when he’s hopped up on caffeine and embarrassingly sentimental, maybe even Jackson. But they’ve decided to shut everything else out, because everything else hasn’t been working, not for a while.

“Are you sure?” Derek asks for the second time, cupping Stiles’ face.

Stiles’ struck by how natural it is when Derek’s touches linger instead of shying, fluttering away, uncertain of their welcome. He touches Derek back, nuzzles Derek’s palm—not permission but enticement. Derek becomes bolder, draws his face close, takes his lips again.

“Yeah,” Stiles answers for the second time. “Yes,” the third.

Derek kisses him briefly, close mouthed, kisses him again, drops kisses along the bow of his lips, each slower and sweeter than the last. “You’re choosing me,” he says wonderingly.

“I’m choosing us,” Stiles corrects him, shifting closer, and tries to remember how long it’s been since they were on the same bed. At the orphanage, Derek used to sneak into bed with Stiles and hold him when he had nightmares, and he would whimper through the long hours it took for him to feel safe again.

“Why?”

Stiles rests his head on top of Derek’s stomach, snuggling into the curves of Derek’s body and pulling the comforter over his shoulder, strewn over his back. “As long as I had you,” Stiles sighs, “I wouldn’t need anything else. You made sure of that.”

“That you had me, or that you wouldn’t?” Derek asks, but Stiles is already asleep, unburdened and unafraid.

***

Someone told. It doesn’t matter who. They made a mistake. It doesn’t matter how.

What does matter: Derek waiting for him at JFK, two of Deucalion’s thugs on the floor, dead, one blocking his way with a fucking machete. His gun, out of bullets.

Both of them know it.

The guy—skinhead, excessively tattooed, intentionally clichéd—probably goes out on more intimidations than assassinations. His swings are big and showy, reckless, the kind Stiles hates the most. Stiles’ eyes dart down. The skinhead’s sure on his feet but not quick. Stiles’ eyes dart up. The skinhead’s going in for the kill.

Stiles throws himself into the wall behind him and gropes for his bat. It’s cold and heavy in his hand, it’s unwieldy and he’s more out of practice than he would like. Experience has always been his biggest weakness.

Rendezvous in forty-five minutes. Derek. It unnerves him how the thought of Derek can focus him and distract him at the same time and it all comes down to inexperience, doesn’t it.

He has the bat now, but he needs big swings to bring the skinhead down. Strength versus strength or fuck _that_ , upper-body strength versus upper-body strength, stamina versus stamina and Stiles doesn’t exactly possess an overabundance of those. The skinhead leaves a lot of openings—fuck, what he would do for a sword.

Skinhead charges forward with a grunt, slashing down left to right in a blinding flash of light. Stiles barely deflects that, the bones of his arm ringing on impact, his spine curling on the metal on metal horrible, scraping screech. Stiles’ strength in combat, he’s always been told, is predicting the move of his opponent. That’s why he fares even worse in hand-to-hand than in endurance contests. That’s why here, his chances are much better, at least, than a snowball’s in hell.

On the next strike Skinhead moves in closer, still, doesn’t even fall back. The reach of Stiles’ bat is pathetic but not that pathetic, and Skinhead appears to be a moron with no formal training. In the amount of time it takes for Skinhead to change the angle of attack, Stiles has already brought his bat up in a quicksilver swipe, catching Skinhead’s chin.

There isn't blood, but Skinhead’s chin is snapped back and this, this is where you follow up. The machete falls back inches before dropping hastily back down to guard but it doesn’t matter, Stiles swings hard and hits Skinhead from the right and hears his cheekbone break. Skinhead staggers to the left, trying to get away, unsteady on his feet and what the fuck was Stiles thinking. This is child’s play. The next swing makes Skinhead drop the machete and the one after that crushes in his skull.

Skinhead crashes harshly against onto the floor and doesn’t get up. Stiles inhales, shaky, exhales, sharp and too loud, too fast, immediately digging for his phone but not lowering his bat. He doubles over with one hand on his knees, the other holding the phone to his ear, and watches Skinhead’s prone form. When he fumbles his phone he realizes his hands are trembling. It’s the adrenaline and not the fact that he hasn’t processed any of this, hasn’t had the chance to, at all.

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice is urgent, garbled with static from the traffic. Stiles feels his heart calm down and he’s being patently ridiculous because one second ago he didn’t even notice it was painful in his chest. So Deucalion hasn’t gotten to Derek. So Derek’s safe.

“Deucalion knows.” Stiles looks around for his bag, “We’re going Newark instead. I need you to dig up the passports we used for that Forester job in ’08 and book us anything that gets us out of this side of the states.”

“Are you okay? Are you surrounded?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, I’m okay, but I’m looking at the cameras now and Deucalion’s only sent three of them here, I think.”

“Stiles!”

He picks up the duffle bag from under the coffee table and brushes off the glass shards, “Oh God, I mean, they’re all dead, I’m fine.” Fuck, what’s wrong with him? “How are you? I’m coming.”

“Newark,” Derek repeats, “I’m waiting for you.” And Stiles doesn’t look around at their home of— _God_ —ten years, doesn’t mourn it, because once he starts mourning, he won’t be able to stop.

A Carrie Underwood song starts playing. It’s Skinhead’s ringtone for Deucalion, and the phone’s over in the corner of the room where it’s been flung out.

Stiles begins to run, but the screen flashes _Pick up, Mr. Stilinski_.

It can be a) a bluff, b) a trap. Or c) his dad’s last chance.

Stiles picks the damn phone up.

“What?”

“I am very disappointed, Mr. Stilinski.”

“You gave me zero reason to believe you, zero reason to believe that my dad was alive. So I didn’t.”

“That is why I am calling now,” Deucalion says, his tone imperceptible. “Didn’t you say you wanted to speak to your dad?”

_God, yes_.

“No,” Stiles says. “I want you to fucking listen. If you don’t want Feds swarming your Florida beach house and your casino in Chinatown, _Duke_ , you’ll leave my dad alone.”

There’s a pause so pregnant Stiles almost hangs up when he hears, “Don’t pretend this is about keeping your father safe. His life would have been guaranteed had you stayed. If you stay, now.”

“ _You_ don’t fucking lie. Now we’re too unpredictable, aren’t we? Now you would kill us on sight if you got the chance. Lose me and you lose the bargaining chip with my dad so you’re going to kill him too.” Stiles takes a deep breath, “And here I thought you were just beginning to respect me.”

Deucalion sighs, “Still, Mr. Stilinski, _still_. I wonder why.”

“I don’t owe you that,” Stiles says coldly, “I owe my dad that, but not you.”

“You won’t be able to find him before I have moved all of our operations.”

“Right,” Stiles scoffs. “You’re going to switch out all of your personnel too, and fire all the cops you have on your payroll.”

Now Stiles does hang up. Deucalion doesn’t know who to trust but neither do they. If they contact Scott, either Deucalion will track them and put them down like dogs or they will always stay one step ahead.

But Stiles won’t call Scott and won’t explain, because Deucalion’s right, Stiles didn’t choose his dad. He chose Derek. He chose them. He won’t take any chances with the only thing he’s got left.

***

The thing is, Stiles has always known why Derek stays, and Stiles has always known because Kate was Derek’s last chance to escape.

It was on the tail end of 2011 and the heels of Derek’s first kill when they met. Derek thought Derek was in love. Stiles thought Stiles was ecstatic. Kate waltzed into their lives like a vision straight out of Stiles’ fervent fantasy, the prince on a white horse who could rescue them both from each other. Maybe Kate could even whisk Derek away from the nightmare and love him like he deserves, love him enough, love him so much that he isn't semi-self-abusive, a-lot-lethargic and his life not the universe’s cruel joke anymore.

Stiles didn’t dare comfort Derek after the kill. Derek might become his, completely, and Stiles couldn’t let Derek belong to him because that wasn’t fair to either of them. It occurred to him, sometimes when he could momentarily stop thinking about himself, that Derek only had him, that anything would have been preferable to being left alone with what Derek had done.

Along came Kate and suddenly Stiles and Derek could talk again. Stiles could bitch to Derek about his day and without feeling guilty and Derek could show Stiles he cared without it being laden with expectations. Because Derek had someone else to love now, and who would love Stiles when they had any— _any!_ —other alternative.

In hindsight, maybe Derek trying so hard to love her was just another way he thought he could please Stiles, the only way Stiles would keep him.

It turned out that Derek was never done being the universe’s bitch and that Kate was Kate Argent, sister-cum-right hand woman of Victoria Argent. Who was the matriarch of the Argent crime family. Victoria Argent was their face. Kate Argent was their shadow. On Derek’s info Kate killed some gang members Scott didn’t like, who was right above Scott and drove a wedge between Scott and Deucalion for a good while. Scott and Deucalion had always had a weird relationship. Deucalion flirted and menaced in turns and never was quite certain where Scott’s loyalty lay. Scott threatened and pushed and didn’t put out but he never did anything insubordinate either. Kate’s stunt changed that, provoked something so volatile it put the whole gang on constant edge.

Kate’s background check came in months too late. Stiles got it via a phone call from Lydia, during which the first thing she said was, “Don’t panic.” There were irregularities in the first run ‘round, she told him, but they all wanted Kate to be true, so they didn’t raise any flag until they knew for certain.

At that moment two things became very clear, that Stiles needed to be the one to tell Derek and hold him together even as he fell apart, and that Derek would belong to Stiles, would have only Stiles, forever and ever.

(Stiles hunted Kate down and poured five bullets into her chest. The last thing she said was, “You know, I feel sorry for him, he feels sorry for you. I betray him, he betrays you. It’s a full circle!”

Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. An aborted gasp. “You were never part of us,” Stiles told her when she was already dead.)

***

Somewhere in the Midwest, they break into a pretty house on sale with a badly managed front lawn.

“That’s a reservation over there,” Stiles says, pointing in the general direction of the window. The window is simultaneously their only source of light in the half-dark and their only source of entertainment when Stiles is done messing with Derek’s face.

Derek laughs, “How could you possibly know that?”

“The waitress was kind of talkative,” Stiles says defensively, “and you were in the bathroom for a really long time.”

They discover that the water is working but the electricity is not, so dinner is Twinkies and the shower is cold. Derek is the middle of offering to go second when Stiles rolls his eyes and pulls him in, kisses him. “But one of us has to keep wat—“ Derek protests, but Stiles just sucks on Derek’s tongue enthusiastically, crowding Derek up against the wall in the cramped, freezing, too-dark bathroom, their panting the only sound echoing tentatively around the universe.

“If they’ve managed to chase us here” Stiles explains, in between unbuttoning their jeans, “we don’t deserve to live.”

“You realize it’s stunts like this that’s going to let them,” Derek says, curling his arms protectively around him.

“Mmm,” Stiles maneuvers them into the shower stall, carefully avoiding knocking over the flashlight they set up to point toward the mirror, submerging them in a strange cacophony of shadow and light.

***

They sleep in the smaller guest bedroom on the second floor instead of the master on the first. The guest bedroom has absolutely no visual on the front door or on the back and it goes onto the long list of stupid stuff Stiles does just because. Plus, the bed there is comfier, one of those he could dig between the sheets and bury himself in it completely, lost in warmth and the feeling of cotton on skin. And Derek has a gun under the covers. They do stupid things. They are not actually stupid.

“After we get my dad,” Stiles mumbles sleepily, “we’re getting a place just like this.”

“You’d go mad with boredom.”

Stiles considers this, “Boredom sounds good. I mean--”

“Yeah,” Derek says.

Stiles has almost drifted off to sleep—he’s not sure he isn't entirely unconscious when he says timidly, “You know, I’ve never told you this. Hey, Derek, are you awake?”

“Stiles,” Derek slips an arm around Stiles’ midsection, hugs him close and it’s almost too hot, Stiles would free his feet from under the thick, heavy comforter if he could so much as wiggle his toes. “I already know.”

“You don’t,” Stiles insists, because Stiles isn't about to say _I love you_. Stiles isn't going to say _I love you_ for a long time. Maybe when they’re safe and Stiles isn't terrified of losing everything that he has, he’ll say it and make it true. Because right now Derek _is_ everything Stiles has and that’s such a bad idea. Stiles is ready for love, the feeling but not love, the word.

And Derek’s right, Derek already knows anyway. Derek’s known from the very beginning and neglected to tell Stiles about it.

“Derek,” Stiles asks suddenly, “why didn’t you tell me that I loved you? How could you not tell me that I loved you?”

“How could you not know?” Derek says, accusing, devastating, “You knew you loved me, you just didn’t want to love me.”

“I didn’t want you to be a functional human being without me,” Stiles admits, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry about that.”

“Derek—“

Derek shifts so that he’s half sprawled over Stiles, his body too heavy and his breath too hot and damp on Stiles’ neck. “Do you know what you should be sorry for? For joining with Deucalion and letting him put a leash on you like that. I _hated_ that you grew so close to them. I hated that you were becoming theirs, that you wouldn’t have me anymore, even though I needed you.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles chokes, “I’m so sorry, I was trying to give you a way out.”

Derek nuzzles Stiles’ collarbone, “I was angry, at first. And then you kept doing these things you didn’t even notice, like staring longingly at me whenever I had a date with Kate, and cracking these in-jokes we had in front of her and I thought, you wouldn’t actually let me go.

“And _then_ I thought,” Derek shushes Stiles’ protest with one finger on Stiles’ lips, “what if I did move on? It would serve you right, and it’s going to be a lesson maybe you won’t forget this time. And maybe I would be happy, or at least not miserable, and it’s what you wanted, so maybe you would be happy too, but the mafia has a way of swallowing you up and without me--”

“I wouldn’t have been able to escape from them,” Stiles says, “I know.”

“I was relieved when Kate turned out to be playing me.”

Stiles smiles, “Liar.”

Derek huffs, “I was a little heartbroken and a little relieved, okay?”

“That should be your life motto, broken-hearted, but relieved because the cut was quick and horrible and not drawn out.”

“What’s yours?” Derek sighs, his consonants already slurring with sleep. “Willfully oblivious? So smart but ten times as stupid? Not someone who needs to be worried about but someone I can’t help worrying about anyway?”

“Let’s not say anything we can’t take back.”

Derek says, in the tinniest voice threaded with exhaustion and amusement both, “Serial heartbreaker?”

Stiles laughs, “That one is definitely all about you,” and then he stops, because they’re both serial killers, kind of. And then he starts laughing again.

What else can he do?

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback would be lovely.


End file.
